


Drinking With The Devil

by Enfilade



Series: Waltz With The Devil [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Coercion, Drinking, Emetophobia, Humor, Implied/Referenced Torture, Intoxication, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Poor Life Choices, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, who's afraid of the DJD?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a unit commander is a stressful and isolating experience.  Pharma finally breaks down and calls Ratchet to commiserate.  Too bad he mis-dials.  Too bad Tarn is feeling stressed and isolated too…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everybody Wants To Rule The World

**Author's Note:**

> This story’s rated T for Tarn…no, actually, it’s PG-13 for elements of coercion, threats of violence, making out, heavy alcohol consumption, and DJD-related content. 
> 
> No rapist!Tarn anywhere in this story. Fear not, Tarn is still not a nice guy. He’s still extorting T-cogs from Pharma on pain of death (and a lot of dismemberment on the way there), and he’s still not above using that voice of his for manipulation. I’m labelling the story “dubious consent” as a result of two mechanisms too drunk to fully understand what they’re doing (neither being in any fit state for legal consent).
> 
> It also presumes no prior intimate relationship between Pharma and Tarn. That means this story’s set in a separate timeline from my previous Tarn/Pharma story, “what you are in the dark.”
> 
> Implied Megatron/Tarn, implied Ratchet/Pharma, obvious Tarn/Pharma.
> 
> Emetophobia warning in chapter six in which a character thinks he doesn't feel so good (no actual illness).

_Like before he walked through the door_  
 _A glass was in his hand_  
 _Sat me down and poured me one more_  
 _And said I'm at you command_  
 _And I was drinking with the devil_  
 _Gonna raise some hell_  
 _I'm just a rock and roll rebel_  
 _Got my world to sell_  
 _Out all night till the sun comes up_  
 _You know I'm never gonna learn_  
 _Raise my glass and fill my cup_  
 _I'm playing with fire_  
 _And I'm gonna get burned_

\--“Drinking with the Devil,” Rainbow 

Chapter One: Everybody Wants To Rule The World

 _Everyone_ wanted to be in the DJD these days.

Tarn eyed the precarious stack of datapads piled up on the left side of his desk, and the smaller stack beside it. The smaller stack had once been part of the larger stack, until it had fallen on him. Tarn took the hint. He’d been letting the paperwork pile up, and now it was past time that he deal with it.

That was why Kaon, Vos, Helex and Tesarus were off to Hedonia in the _Peaceful Tyranny_ for a well-deserved vacation, and he was stuck here on Messatine doing _paperwork_.

It was not easy being a unit commander.

This mountain of datapads represented requests from various Decepticons to join the DJD. The fact that he’d plastered the DJD’s official site with notices reading _we are not currently hiring_ had not deterred the eager faithful, who insisted on submitting their resumes _just in case_ a spot were to become available in the future.

There was no point in asking Kaon to handle this task. He just got irritable at the insinuation that so many people were eagerly waiting for him, or one of his colleagues, to die in the line of duty so they could fill the empty position. It put him in a foul mood and he’d stalk around the base sparking for _days_. 

And, Tarn admitted, he really couldn’t fault these Decepticons for _trying_. Enthusiasm for the cause and loyalty to Lord Megatron and a desire to advance the Decepticon vision…these were _good_ things, which Tarn ought to be working to promote. After all, the more loyal, obedient Decepticons there were, the less work Tarn and his boys would need to do. Tarn would love to see a day when the Decepticons more or less policed _themselves_ and the List could be reserved for those _special exceptions_ that needed a _personal_ touch.

In the meantime, Tarn had to respond to all these hopeful applications. He sorted them into three categories: 

1\. The rare individuals who actually showed promise, and were worth earmarking for future consideration;

2\. The well-meaning but woefully underqualified – it seemed as though no matter how many blogs Tarn posted on the subject, these mechanisms just did not understand that being in the DJD took more than a creative touch with a cutting saw. Interrogators were a dime a dozen; the DJD needed mechs who could _locate, capture_ and _restrain_ their targets as well as just carve them up. On top of that, they were a small unit, so they really required candidates who could bring additional skills to the table, skills such as Kaon’s organizational and administrative acumen, or Vos’ scientific knowledge, or Helex’s knack for chemistry and engineering, or Tesarus’ programming ability. They had to be adaptable. The DJD wasn’t just round-the-clock _playtime_ , Tarn thought with a snort. Tarn personally wrote the responses to these Decepticons, striking a delicate balance between encouraging them to further develop their skills, and informing them that their service to the Cause would lie outside the DJD’s ranks. These were the bulk of the applications; but of course there was always…

3\. Those idiots who were foolish enough to attempt to bribe or manipulate the DJD to earn a position with the unit. _Those_ applications went straight to Kaon for addition to the List.

Tarn narrowed his eyes at the current application and deposited the datapad directly into pile number three. 

It was downright _discouraging_ sometimes, Tarn thought, as though all his prior hard work had been for nothing. Had he failed? He’d worked for so long trying to make it clear to the Decepticons what sort of behaviour wasn’t permissible, and what the consequences would inevitably be. Sometimes the message just didn’t get through, though, and he felt as though he should have tried harder somehow.

Tarn rested his head in his hands, feeling the cool, smooth metal of the mask he wore. The mask shaped like the Decepticon insignia, the mask that had become his face. His life. His reason for being. 

There was no one who understood. No one, save his DJD—but there were things one did not discuss with subordinates—and Lord Megatron, but Tarn would take a blade through the spark before he faltered and went whining to his Emperor. The datapad stack teetered precariously and Tarn groaned. This situation was something he would have to deal with all alone.

He would give himself two minutes and then he would get back to work. He’d put on his new data disk of Libretto’s operas…the one he’d picked up when the _Peaceful Tyranny_ had stopped over on Constancy…and get through these datapads. In the meantime…Two minutes to feel sorry for himself. Under the circumstances, surely that wasn’t so much to ask.

But right away, Tarn’s comm link started flashing with an incoming message from an sender not in Tarn’s usual list of contacts. The DJD’s security system began tracing the call.

By the Smelter. _Really?_

Tarn considered ignoring the message. His Division were capable warriors. If it was a call from Hedonia, surely they could handle it, whatever it was, without Tarn’s input. But what if it was Soundwave? Tarn had a delicate arrangement worked out with the Chief of Intelligence, a relationship based on mutual respect and cutthroat politics. Or…could it be? Megatron himself?

Doubtful. But Tarn couldn’t take the chance.

Sighing wearily, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand, Tarn punched the “receive” button with his right index finger. 

An ident code that was most certainly not Lord Megatron, or Soundwave, came up on the screen.

To hell with communications protocol. Tarn answered with an inarticulate noise that sounded like a hybrid of a grunt and a growl.

Tarn’s screen stayed dark, but sound came through his exquisitely balanced speakers. “You wouldn’t _believe_ the stack of transfers I’m looking at,” said a voice that was emphatically _not_ that of any member of the DJD. Tarn sat up straighter as the speaker continued, “When did Messatine become _the_ place to be?”

Tarn eyed his own stack of transfers warily, wondering if this was some sort of prank on Kaon’s part, but…but... He _knew_ this voice. 

“I wouldn’t mind so much if any of these mechanisms had even half the skills I needed, of course,” the voice complained as Tarn’s brain struggled to place it, “but you’d honestly think they hadn’t even read the list of minimum qualifications before applying.”

Recognition clicked. Could it possibly be…? 

“It makes me wonder if they’re lazy, illiterate, or just too stupid to understand what they’ve read,” Pharma continued. 

Tarn wondered who Delphi’s Chief On-Site Medical Officer thought he was talking to. “Hmmm?” Tarn said, encouraging Pharma to keep talking, making a noncommittal sound that could have been anyone, really.

 _Well, what do you know_ , Tarn thought. _Maybe there_ is _someone who understands what I’m dealing with._

A broad smile began to spread underneath Tarn’s mask.

Staying behind on Messatine might be fun, after all.

#

_Ten minutes previously_  
  


Pharma took a long, hard look at the number of files he’d saved in the folder marked DELPHI: REQUESTS FOR TRANSFER: INBOUND. Then he picked up his freshly opened vintage bottle of Macaalex Platinum and took a long, stiff drink right out of the bottle. Messatine was in the midst of a cold snap that made the planet even more bitterly cold than usual, and none of Delphi’s heating equipment could keep up. The chill gnawed at Pharma’s fingers and wingtips even as the quintuple-filtered engex burned in his throat on its way to warm his fuel tanks.

 _Why_ would any mech in his right mind _want_ to transfer to Messatine?

Pharma poured himself a shot and reluctantly admitted that there were times when he opened up the transfer files just to read what the cover letters said about him. Things like “… _would be honoured to work with Cybertron’s most accomplished physician…_ ” and “ _...legend in the medical community_.” Those descriptions did tend to improve his spirits.

Pharma nodded, smiling to himself, as he opened the next file and skimmed. Ah, there was the good part: “ _greatest medic of our time…_ ” …yes, yes… 

“ _…hero of Delphi_.”

Pharma’s mood came crashing back down around him.

Pharma saved his favourite transfer requests, the ones that recognized and appreciated his genius, but he always deleted those that referred to him as the hero of Delphi. _Hero_ wasn’t the word anyone would be using if the Autobots found out exactly what lengths he’d gone to in order to keep Delphi safe.

And he doubted anyone would be requesting a transfer here if they knew their T-cog might end up powering the transformations of the commander of the DJD.

With such a big secret to keep, Pharma had to be very careful about who he approved to work on site at Delphi. It meant that he couldn’t delegate transfer duty to any of his staff. He had to maintain perfect control, or his carefully—perhaps even precariously—balanced arrangement would all come falling down around him.

Truth be told, he actually preferred colleagues with a few skeletons of their own in the closet. Like First Aid, with his Wreckers obsession, and Ambulon…ah, Ambulon. Their secrets gave Pharma leverage. Their secrets ensured they wouldn’t question him too closely lest he use their own weaknesses against them in a more…public fashion. 

Pharma tried to tell himself that spending an evening combing through the transfer requests would pay off down the road, and it probably would, but in all honesty Pharma would much rather be spending tonight getting well and truly blitzed on the truly exquisite bottle of Macaalex Platinum quintuple-filtered engex that he’d just opened. The very flavourful, very strong, very expensive…and now, thanks to the war, very _rare_ intoxicant might even be enough to allow him to forget about the shadow of the DJD which seemed to loom in every shady corner of Delphi.

Pharma was drinking alone, of course. He wasn’t about to waste anything like Macaalex Platinum on the idiots that made up his staff or the disposable heroes that filled his med bays. There was just no one on this planet who was anywhere near his intellectual or cultural equal and it got so _tiring_ sometimes…

Tiring and lonely.

And all the while the transfer requests piled up, and every once in a while Pharma had to deal with them. Had to sift out the handful of mechs who might, in fact, be good fits here: those with skills enough to do their job and flaws enough for Pharma to fully control them. He contacted those mechanisms personally and let his nurses send out the form rejection letters to the rest, without ever saying why he made the choices that he did.

The piles were getting unpleasantly high. One of them was swaying back and forth, threatening to fall on him, and Pharma wondered just how many of these he could get through before the Macaalex interfered with his judgment. 

Wasn’t that a depressing thought. Sitting here, in this Primus-forsaken icebound hellhole, in front of a roaring series of space heaters that were already starting to smoke and still failing to drive away the chill of an even more bitterly cold than usual Delphi night, drinking Macaalex Platinum all alone.

The truth was, there was no one on Messatine he could talk to about his frustrations. None of the other staff had ever commanded a medical facility; they didn’t know what it was like. First Aid still acted as though he wanted to be an officer someday, though there was scant chance of that now that he’d been busted down to nurse. Wanna-be’s, amateurs, mechs who saw only power and glory and didn’t realize that being Chief of Delphi meant cutting devil’s deals and choosing whose lives to buy…and whose to sell in exchange.

Pharma couldn’t tell anyone about his arrangement with the DJD, of course, but even if he just got to vent about all the other burdens he shouldered…about frustrating subordinates and idiotic prospective transfers and all the daily annoyances of command…if he got that off his chest, he would surely feel better, and then he could handle the DJD situation on his own.

Pharma took a long, slow drink and reluctantly looked at his communications console.

The top buttons on his console were direct lines to his subordinates: Ambulon, First Aid, Triage. The middle buttons on his console were direct lines to other units he worked with: his logistics team on Cybertron, the mines here on Messatine, the Cybertronian Medical Authority based off Luna 2. The bottom buttons on his console were unassigned.

Except for two.

Pharma had deliberately set Ratchet’s line as the very last when he realized how often he’d been calling up his former conjunx endura “just to talk.” He would _not_ go crawling to Ratchet now because he was lonely. Or depressed. Or more than a little frightened. 

He had _not_ been wrong and he would _not_ apologize. It wasn’t his fault if Ratchet couldn’t admit that Pharma had overtaken his teacher a long time ago. It wasn’t his fault that Ratchet couldn’t let go.

 _But he did_ , said a voice in his head. _He called your bluff, and he let you go._

The truth was that Pharma needed Ratchet more than Ratchet needed him. Pharma needed Ratchet still, and he hated himself for it, but all the recriminations in the world couldn’t change the dull lump in the bottom of his spark chamber.

 _Just this once_.

He hadn’t called Ratchet in years. He would not call Ratchet again. But tonight…just tonight…just this once.

Pharma knocked back an overly large gulp of Macaalex and stabbed his finger down on the communications console. He turned his head away at the last second. If he didn’t see his finger strike the dial button—if he didn’t witness his moment of weakness as it occurred—then he could cope. 

So much of his life was like this now…these little compromises.

A buzz. Another buzz. The line hummed for so long that at first Pharma was certain it wouldn’t get answered. 

Where was Ratchet? Who was he with? What was keeping him so busy? Why was he letting Pharma down again? Pharma’s head spun with questions; his fingers gripped the edge of his table, wondering how he was supposed to hold on all alone.

Then the line was answered. “Mrgh,” it said, a kind of grunting growl that usually meant Ratchet was in the middle of something and surly about being disturbed. 

But he’d answered. Pharma was filled with a flood of relief which he quickly buried under irritation. He reined himself in before opening his mouth. Snapping at Ratchet wouldn’t get him what he wanted.

“You would not _believe_ the stack of transfers I’m looking at,” Pharma began, without even bothering to say hello. Ratchet would know who it was. Surely Ratchet remembered Pharma’s voice. “When did Messatine become _the_ place to be? I wouldn’t mind so much if any of these mechanisms had even half the skills I needed, of course, but you’d honestly think they hadn’t even read the list of minimum qualifications before applying. It makes me wonder if they’re lazy, illiterate, or just too stupid to understand what they’ve read.”

“Hmmm,” said the voice on the other end of the line, but that wasn’t what Pharma heard. Somehow his brain took an indistinct sound and translated it into words: _Please go on. I’d love to hear more_.

And because he heard what he wanted to hear—namely, encouragement from Ratchet to keep talking—he did.

“Do they have any idea what it’s like to work here? _Do they_? Do they understand that medical treatment for exposure to extreme cold is a routine part of going outside here? Do they realize that we don’t get any kind of entertainment here save that which we bring ourselves? We had a transfer nurse come in from Kilair and everyone, I mean _everyone_ in Delphi has seen his collection of Kilairian melodramas at least _twice_ , and now the _miners_ are watching it. Have you ever _seen_ a Kilairian melodrama? _Horrible_ overacting, _ridiculous_ plots and a _truly repulsive_ number of oil-leak jokes masquerading as humour. I…”

Pharma broke off as a series of notes began playing over the comm link. 

_No, it couldn’t be…_

But then a voice joined in with the music. A voice which was very obviously Libretto, as any halfway cultured Cybertronian would have known. Pharma had a number of Libretto’s performances on data disks, but he couldn’t place this song. A ripple of current ran down his backstrut. He’d listened to his Libretto collection often enough to memorize each piece. This music was something new.

There were only a handful of Libretto’s tracks that Pharma didn’t already own. Those recordings were all very, very rare now…the sort of thing where even having the shanix to buy them didn’t guarantee they could be found for sale. Wars were so hard on the arts.

“Where did you get that?” Pharma hissed.

Oh, Ratchet had taken him to see Libretto live on their first date. Ratchet had bought him the double-sized deluxe set of Libretto’s operas that he cherished so dearly. Pharma had thrown out so many of Ratchet’s presents but _not_ the Libretto set, _never_ that. His breakup with Ratchet had nothing to do with his passion for Libretto’s music, which was a distinct and eternal thing…

Ratchet had been a cultured mech, and yet he’d seemed to prefer the raucous entertainments of his social inferiors. Ratchet had a terrible tendency to slumming: cheap engex, tawdry dance halls, companions of questionable pedigree. Pharma had balked when Ratchet had tried to drag him down with him and Ratchet had accused Pharma of snobbery and worse. But _this…_

The music gave Pharma hope. Ratchet remembered Libretto. Maybe he remembered Pharma as well. How could he not, while that voice sang? 

Perhaps Ratchet had finally realized that his place was among the finer things in life. At Pharma’s side.

And just one step behind. 

_At the very least maybe I can get him to share the music_ , Pharma thought greedily, his desire for a new compilation of his favourite singer’s work overriding even his urge to reclaim Ratchet as his own—on the understanding that Ratchet finally acknowledge Pharma as the superior physician, the superior in every respect.

“Would you like to come over and listen to it with me?” Ratchet invited in a rich, smooth voice. Pharma felt a pulse of desire, spark-deep. Suddenly there was nothing he wanted so much as to go to Ratchet and listen to the songs. Questions of dominance and superiority fell by the wayside. The chill outside was negligible. His spark throbbed with need. He wanted to go…

He wanted to hear Ratchet speak again. Speak. That _voice_ …

_That voice…_

“I’d be so _pleased_ for the companionship.”

Pharma shoved away from the desktop, alarm screaming in every nerve conductor in his airframe, because _that wasn’t Ratchet_.

“Yes,” Pharma said, and then he was horrified, because that hadn’t been what he meant to say, hadn’t been what he meant to say at all.

Though he _did_ want to hear the compilation…but _not_ with his current conversation partner. Pharma’s fuel ran cold when he realized what he’d done.

The last two buttons on his private console were the numbers he never wanted to call. The last number was Ratchet's. The second-to-last was…was…

“Excellent,” Tarn said. “I’ll be expecting you shortly."


	2. Burning for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...cause I'm living for giving the devil his due  
> and I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you."
> 
> \--Blue Oyster Cult

Chapter Two: Burning for You

“I’ll be expecting you shortly,” Tarn purred, realizing too late he was absolutely _lacing_ his voice with the dulcet tones that dug their hooks into his listeners’ sparks and tugged them in whatever direction Tarn desired.

Well. Could he really be faulted for that? _Every_ mech going out on the town took the time to polish himself up with a bit of wax, tune his speakers to clear out any static, and rehearse his walk and his glances and his mannerisms. _Every_ mech put his best foot forward when he sought companionship. Who would ever want to spend time with someone who couldn’t be bothered with the bare minimum of social graces? It made a mechanism feel as though he wasn’t _worth_ his companion’s effort.

If you had it, you should flaunt it. And what Tarn _had_ was a voice quite literally to die for.

_Still_ , Tarn thought ruefully, _there really is a difference of scale, isn’t there?_ It was one thing to have one’s eye caught by some attractive detailing or the flash from chrome trim, and quite another to have one’s spark manipulated by the reward of pleasure buttressed by the threat of pain. If it hurt to look elsewhere, who would turn away from Tarn? No one would _dare_.

But the true problem ran deeper even than that.

_Would anyone look at me that way if I wasn’t pumping pleasure directly into his spark?_

Tarn looked down at his hands—his big, powerful, brutish hands—and felt need reach up and seize him by the throat. He barely had time to stand up before his T-cog began to fold his body frame into the configuration of a battle tank. 

Tarn was a Decepticon. A proud Decepticon. Pillar of a movement that venerated warriors: that loved strength and power and the application of force…

So why could Tarn never quite convince himself that this hulking, intimidating form he wore was desirable?

Why did he wish in his secret spark that he could go back to the more graceful frame he’d worn in the distant past, before he’d had himself made over in the image of his commander?

Over the sound of his transformation, he heard Pharma stuttering over the comm link. “I…I, ah…Tarn, I deeply apologize, but I fear there’s been a mistake. So terribly sorry to have interrupted you. I can tell you’re even more busy that I and surely at tasks more important to your respective faction than…” He gagged, almost choked—poor, _poor_ Pharma and his fragile ego—but he continued, “…than my own paltry efforts.”

Ordinarily, Tarn would smile. He _did_ so enjoy watching the haughty doctor eat his humble pie.

Today, though, Tarn realized he didn’t want to listen to Pharma grovel. It was companionship that Tarn wanted, someone who _understood_ , and if that meant listening to Pharma go on about how nobody at Delphi was anywhere near his level, Tarn was ready to accept that. 

After all, it was lonely at the top.

Tarn converted back to his robot mode—one more reassuring transformation, soothing him, reminding him that yes, this body could feel good, this body was acceptable—and took the speaker. “I wouldn’t think you were the kind of mechanism to make mistakes, Pharma.”

“Oh, er…well…”

“You’re far too precise for that.”

“Ah…thank you?”

“Put on your video feed, Pharma. I want to get a look at you.” Tarn made sure his own feed was active. His view screen flickered a moment later to the sight of a deeply apprehensive Autobot medic.

Tarn was glad his mask hid his smile. It couldn’t be a pleasant expression, not when viewed from the other side. Pharma wouldn’t appreciate the way that Tarn savoured his anxiety. Fear made mechanisms pliable, and comforted Tarn with the soothing security that came from absolute control…

Tarn bit down on his teeth. He was _doing_ it again. Terrifying Pharma into obedience wasn’t any better than seducing him into compliance. They were two sides of the same coin. 

_Here’s a challenge for you, Tarn: can you convince him to come over here without resorting to doping him up with forced pleasure or reducing him to a quivering wreck of terror?_

_Can you get him over here when all you’ve got to offer is yourself?_

Well, himself and a few perks. “Did you say you were cold? Take a look at this.” Tarn rotated the camera, letting Pharma have a good look at the luxuries of Tarn’s personal quarters—and they _were_ luxurious. Banks of heaters, yes, but also a real stone fireplace big enough to park an average sized Cybertronian inside—not that he’d ever done so. He tried to keep work out of his living quarters as much as possible. Particularly the messy assignments. A huge fire roared in the hearth. 

His rooms also featured an overstuffed sofa large enough to seat Helex and Tesarus, an abundance of cushions to provide back support for smaller mechanisms, and an ornately carved series of small tables holding crystal decanters and drinking glasses. Tarn panned over his extremely high quality personal entertainment centre—they didn’t build them like this any more—and used a remote control to turn up the volume, allowing Pharma to appreciate the exquisite sound of Libretto’s singing coming over his speakers. “I hardly think you’d be cold over here,” Tarn purred as he stepped in front of the camera again.

Pharma’s optics were still wide from the things he’d seen. “Is that…” The medic bit his lip, tried again. “Is that really a box of EthySlivers?”

Tarn glanced over at his end table. He’d almost forgotten that candy was there. It was Helex who liked the stuff so much. 

“It is,” Tarn said, a bit confused.

“But it’s just a box. Nothing inside,” Pharma said, as if to himself.

Tarn walked over and picked it up. He shook it, and it rattled. He glanced back at the screen and saw Pharma’s mouth start to water.

Bless this mask for concealing his smug and self-satisfied smirk. Tarn walked back towards the camera, undoing the seals of the box as he went. “Oh, I think there might be something inside here,” he said as he began to lift the lid. “Helex picked this up on New Charteria about a month ago.”

“But…but they don’t make those any more.”

“Oh, they don’t make these any more _on Cybertron_. There’s a fellow named Morningstar on New Charteria who’s got a terrible sweet sensor. Made it his life’s duty to crack the recipe for every Cybertronian treat he can remember. He’s got a whole factory there, turning out all manner of traditional delecacies….ah, here we go.” Tarn tilted the box to give the camera a better view as he presented Pharma with a nice close-up view of plump, tempting energon goodies.

Pharma moaned audibly.

Tarn decided not to mention that Morningstar was an Autobot, or that his continued survival was all but assured, given what Helex would do to anyone who interfered with Morningstar’s candy making operation. Tarn would hate for Pharma to think he could just order his own box any time he wanted.

“I really shouldn’t be left alone with these,” Tarn murmured. “I could eat the whole thing myself and get sick.”

“You are _evil_ ,” Pharma hissed.

“Oh?” Tarn selected a candy and positioned the narrow pink sliver at the opening of his mask.

“You’re going to make me sit here and _watch you eat those_ and then… _then_ you’re going to call me over because _you feel sick_ and you want me to do something about it!”

“Oh, I suppose I could space them out over the next five days….we have an appointment next week anyway. I’m sure I could hold on that long…” Tarn grinned to himself. This wasn’t really like work…it was more like _playing_ at work. “You wouldn’t need to make an extra trip that way.” He let his tongue slip out the slit of the mask and dropped the candy onto it. Tarn gently drew the candy back into his mouth and made a show of slurping on it and commenting on how delicious it was. It was actually too sweet for his taste, but he’d never let truth ruin a good show. 

Pharma looked to be on the verge of tears. How delightful.

“Or you could come over and police my candy consumption yourself,” Tarn offered. Oh, this _was_ good fun. “I might even be persuaded to _share_. And my fireplace is _very_ warm, even in this sort of weather…how are your heaters holding up? Forgive me for mentioning it, but your room there seems a little…how shall I put it? _Austere_.”

Of course it was. Of course the bulk of the Autobot effort went into maintaining the mines, whereas the DJD had the freedom to confiscate goods and shanix from their targets, buy whatever they wanted, and cram their base full of luxuries. And they did. Oh, they _did_. Working hard for the Cause didn’t require one to live like an _animal_. In fact, surely anyone would agree: mechanisms who worked as hard as the DJD deserved a little bit more than the average Decepticon. Tarn chuckled to himself as he eyed the fuming Pharma’s Spartan living quarters—a lifestyle he was certain the Autobot medical officer had not chosen for himself. “I really think…”

Then Tarn’s voice choked off. He thought he’d seen…surely not…but there it was, there on the table beside Pharma. The words slipped out before he could think better of them.

“ _Is that a vintage bottle of Macaalex Platinum?”_

#

Tarn was surely the Pit-spawned construct of Mortilus Himself.

Pharma had been well aware that the leader of the DJD was an abject sadist, but slowly relishing a box of EthySlivers – Pharma’s absolute favourite candy at medical school, the thing that had kept him fueled during long late-night study sessions before his exams, something he hadn’t tasted in several centuries ever since the last factory on Cybertron had been bombed to the ground—well, that sort of thing was just _cruel_ , utterly unjustifiable and completely uncalled for. He’d come to expect Decepticons threatening him with physical injury and destruction of property and any number of heinous acts, but _this_ …

And then Tarn asked about the drink and Pharma felt his optics light up with unholy glee.

“Oh, _this_?” Pharma asked, picking up the glass and swirling it around. He watched as Tarn’s gaze tracked the motion of the fluid in the cup.

_Perfect_.

“I’ve got a whole _case_ of this.”

Tarn’s optics flickered. Then darkened. Pharma wasn’t sure, but he thought they’d narrowed behind the mask.

“Oh, you think I’m lying? See for yourself.” Pharma set his drink down, crossed the room, opened his cabinet, and pulled out the other bottles one at a time, lining them up on his desk right in front of the camera so Tarn could get a good look. 

“You can’t _buy_ that vintage,” Tarn growled, his voice taking on a sharp edge, and Pharma felt his spark shudder—whether from Tarn’s unique ability or just the vehemence in that voice, Pharma wasn’t sure.

Maybe taunting the chief of the DJD had not been a good idea.

But he was in it now, with nothing to do but carry it through. “No, you have to get it from a previous purchaser. I’m sure a Decepticon such as yourself would have no experience with saving the life of a _very_ grateful and _very_ wealthy scion of ancient Cybertronian nobility.” Or there might have been the fact that Pharma had implied—not outright said, but heavily implied—that the case was his surgeon’s fee, and Mirage had not bothered to argue. Why would he, with his life hanging in the balance? A dead mechanism couldn’t enjoy fine engex.

“Or find someone willing to share.” Tarn recovered quickly. “It’s still customary to bring a gift for one’s host, is it not? Say, one of those bottles? You’d hardly miss it. You have so many.”

“Still on that? How are you going to tell your little pack of thugs that you’re leaving them to spend the evening with me? Because I am _not_ splitting this bottle six ways.”

“Oh, of course not. My boys are a wonderful team but you’re correct, they lack a full appreciation of the _finer_ things in life. They’re away on Hedonia this evening, leaving _me_ with a desk full of paperwork, and I’m _certain_ you can empathize when I say there are only so many hours a mechanism can look at transfer requests from the hopelessly infatuated, the chronically clueless, the desperately stupid, the repulsively self-serving and the idiotically suicidal without losing his _own_ mind.” Tarn waved to a stack of datapads that dwarfed Pharma’s in comparison. “It would be so _very_ nice to find someone who _understands_ , and I _will_ rot my fuel tanks if I eat all this candy myself.”

Pharma bit his lip. He never thought he’d ever, _ever_ feel sympathy for the leader of the DJD, but it _did_ sound as though Tarn knew precisely what Pharma was dealing with. And…rare candy and a warm fire. That was an even trade for half a bottle from this case, surely? Primus, even a chance to get out of this damned base was worth half a bottle of Macaalex Platinum; this place just got so _claustrophobic_ sometimes, all bare, institutionalized corridors, day in, day out, no culture, no style, no…

_No way out._

“It’s too cold to fly,” Pharma snapped. “We’re in the middle of the worst cold snap Messatine has experienced in over two decades. It’s definitely too cold to walk.”

“I thought you had hover vehicles there,” Tarn purred. “Make an _executive decision_ to test out your new mobile repair bay. Bring it over to the launch pad near our underground tramway—I’ll send you the coordinates—and you can take our transport here.”

Pharma wasn’t sure how Tarn knew Delphi had recently gotten a new model of mobile repair bay, but it really wasn’t surprising. The DJD had their noses in everything…or maybe that damned Ambulon was a DJD plant and not a traitor at all. You never knew with Decepticons.

And given that _you never knew with Decepticons_ , was he giving _serious_ consideration to the idea of jaunting off to DJD headquarters for a social evening with _Tarn_ of all people?

Pharma fidgeted. How was he supposed to turn down this invitation without getting Delphi bombed to the ground in reprisal? “I, er, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he hedged, trying to buy himself time to think of a reason that might convince Tarn to retract his offer.

“Come, come,” Tarn purred. “Why would you say such a thing? Do you really think this is a trap? There are a _number_ of arguments to the contrary. Firstly, _you_ called _me_.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Pharma snapped. “You’re fully capable of planning a trap in the time we’ve been talking.”

“Ohhh. Compliment _accepted_. But secondly, what could I possibly do to you tonight that I couldn’t do to you next week at our scheduled appointment?”

Pharma felt a cold hand grip his processor. Tarn was right. The little protection he had from the DJD was the fact that sources of T-cogs were difficult to come by and if Tarn killed him, there went his source. If Tarn bashed him up too badly, someone would start asking questions, the Autobots would remove him from Delphi and there went Tarn’s T-cog transplants. Pharma kept telling himself he was worth more to Tarn alive than dead, and that was true, so long as Tarn hadn’t found another supplier…

…but if he had, surely he could wait another five days to have his fun, if that were truly the issue?

“You said your team weren’t there tonight,” Pharma said, because it was the only thing he could think of to say.

“True, but if anything, that’s to _your_ advantage. Do you really think there’s something I’d want to do that they might disapprove of? And if there _was_ , well, I could simply order them out of the room. Or out of the base. Or off planet. Really, Pharma, _I’m_ the one taking the risk here, given that I’m all alone in this base tonight. Just you and me.”

Pharma considered calling the mine security detail—the most heavily armed Autobots on Messatine—but discarded the thought instantly. Even if they could put together a strike team to attack the DJD base with less than an hour’s notice, Pharma would have a hard time justifying where he got his information, and an impossible time if the raid failed. It was also entirely possible that Tarn was lying about being alone. Testing him, to see if he’d try something.

“And you trust me with that knowledge?” Pharma said, playing along.

“Oh. Pharma. You wound me. For me to offer to share my music, my luxury accommodations, my candy—and to be rewarded by some kind of _treachery_? I get enough of that sort of thing at _work_. Isn’t that the entire _point_ of this conversation—that sometimes everyone just needs a _break_?”

Primus, but Pharma half believed him. He and Tarn had already come to a somewhat unequal but mutually beneficial business relationship: he gave Tarn the T-cogs from the patients he couldn’t save, and Tarn let everyone at Delphi continue their residence in the land of moving parts.

“Finally,” Tarn said, “if I’m not mistaken, you said you had a _case_ of Macaalex Platinum, and when I invited you here, I requested you bring _one bottle_.”

“So?”

“So if I want an opportunity to sample any more from that case, I’d best mind my manners, hm? Otherwise you won’t ever want to come _back_.”

Pharma already doubted his own sanity for seriously considering visiting Tarn at all. The idea of doing so on a regular basis was out of the question. “You could flatten Delphi and take it,” he suggested.

“Ach,” Tarn said, visibly wincing. “I _could_ , but another day at the office is really what I’m trying to _avoid_. Besides, some lout might smash the bottles during the assault. Tesarus, when he gets going, it’s just _grind this_ and _crush that_. And I can’t imagine that this option would be very pleasant for _you_.”

There was that. There was definitely that. If Tarn really wanted Pharma’s Macaalex, he could just show up and take it, or add a bottle to the T-cog quota each quarter. 

Pharma had already learned the hard way that it was easiest to just give Tarn what he wanted. Easiest and really the most pleasant for Pharma, too, out of all the available options.

Pharma signed. He knew when he was beaten.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

Tarn immediately brightened, clasping his hands in a gesture of enthusiasm that had to be an affectation. “Excellent! I’ll meet you on the tram.”


	3. One Way Ticket (To Hell And Back)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am envious of everyone who can write in chronological order, but - after finishing the epilogue before I posted the second chapter - I now have the layout of this story. Six chapters and an epilogue. Enjoy Part Three.

Tarn paced the tram car, furling his cloak tighter around his body like a pair of leathery wings. The tram’s heaters were going full blast as the vehicle idled at its station, but the heaters couldn’t compete against the chill outside. Tarn felt a pang of concern—he wasn’t going _soft_ , was he?

Cybertronians were a tough species, with some of their number hardened against the vacuum of space for long periods of time, but there were some rigors even Cybertronians couldn’t endure without permanent damage. Small, successive weakenings of their frames, or too much strain on delicate components, could open the door for all kinds of diseases: corrodia gravis, cybercrosis, and worse. The cold outside was brutal, hardening even Cybertronian metals into a brittle state where an excessive blow could shatter them like glass. Spending too much time exposed to the elements in a climate like that would shorten one’s life expectancy for certain.

Tarn thought about the Decepticon soldiers out on the front lines of ice worlds, snow worlds and planets without atmosphere. His DJD could choose when and where to strike; on days like this they could simply spend their time on maintenance tasks and wait for more pleasant weather to go out and grab the next offender on the List. It had been a long time since Tarn had forced himself off the _Peaceful Tyranny_ or out of the base in the middle of a cold snap as vicious as this.

He wasn’t…. _shirking_ , though. Surely not.

Tarn shook away the thought. Something about the current situation had him questioning himself in a way he didn’t like. Soon he’d be questioning Pharma instead, and the thought of it brought a smile to his lips and a warming sensation to his fuel tank. 

He really hadn’t intended a trap. He was all too aware that he had to let his little treat go, if he wanted his next box of T-cogs. Tonight was a distraction—a diversion, nothing more. And surely he deserved a diversion. His crew, after all, were having fun on Hedonia. He was owed a few hours of entertainment.

Tarn hoped that Pharma would be willing to cooperate. That fine line between getting what he wanted and risking his current arrangement coming undone was easily crossed when the medic was feeling balky. Pharma had actually huffed at him at their last meeting, informing him bluntly that if he put too many dents in the medic’s frame, questions would be asked…questions that would sooner or later make their way to Pharma’s commanders, getting him removed from Delphi, and cutting off Tarn’s source of replacement parts. 

Tarn had not let on that he had no interest in pain for its own sake. Unlike certain members of the DJD, Tarn didn’t consider pain an end in itself. What Tarn wanted was _control_ , and pain was only one of many tools to achieve that end. Let Pharma protest against excessive injury if it made him feel better. Pharma was already giving Tarn what he wanted—not just the T-cogs, but an assurance that there would be future meetings. Those meetings would go on for as long as Tarn desired them, because Tarn held Pharma firmly in his grasp.

And yet…

Where in the Pit was he? Tarn checked his chronometer. Pharma was almost half an hour late, and Tarn was standing around waiting in this hideously cold tram car instead of cozied up in front of his fire with his little medic. 

Was this some _game_ on Pharma’s part? Was Pharma sitting in Delphi, laughing at the idea of Tarn out in the cold? Was he counting on Tarn’s addiction to spare him from the tank’s ire? Was the joke, after all, on _Tarn_?

Overcome by frustration and a rising sense of losing control—that peculiar sensation of towering fury built on a foundation of fear—Tarn threw off his cloak and transformed. Resumed robot mode. Back to tank. Up to robot. 

Tank. Robot. Tank. Robot.

In the grinding of gears and reshaping of parts, Tarn found the soothing sensation of perfect control settle around his spark like a warm tarp.

Tarn was settling back into tank mode when a proximity sensor activated on the control console.

Quickly converting back to robot, ignoring his aching T-cog, Tarn took a look at the view screen. A single figure limped through the snow, clutching a padded bag, hugging itself for warmth.

_Pharma._

Was he _mad_? Where was the mobile repair bay? The leading edges of his wings were caked with ice, distorting them so that they were incapable of sustaining flight. 

Tarn snatched up his cloak and opened the door of the tram. He crossed the narrow depot platform and entered a small, dark hallway leading up to the outside world. The snow had piled up on top of the hatch, but he was strong enough to open it anyway, though snow filtered down over his frame and into the chinks in his armour. He boosted himself up and out of the hatch.

Tarn gritted his teeth as the icy wind sliced him like a thousand little blades. Pharma saw him and began limping more quickly, but still too slowly for Tarn’s tastes. Tarn stepped out of the tram, strode over to Pharma, picked him up, threw him over his shoulder and went back down the hatch to the relative warmth of the vehicle. Pharma didn’t even struggle.

Tarn closed the door and started the automated control system to take them back to DJD headquarters before bothering to let Pharma down off his shoulder. Something was definitely wrong. The prissy doctor hadn’t bothered to kick or scream or even murmur a word of complaint. 

Pharma stood before Tarn now, his head downcast, his cloak soaked through with snow, holding the bag before him like an offering. Tarn took the bag and set it aside. Time enough for Macaalex Platinum later. 

Pharma let the bag’s strap slip through numb fingers without resistance. He still didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t exactly still. His whole frame trembled with uncontrollable shivering. His fans emitted a muffled roaring; all his vents were closed in an attempt to keep the heat within his frame.

“Get that cloak off. It’s soaked,” Tarn said impatiently. “I’m not a medic and even _I_ know it’s just making you colder.”

Pharma emitted his first sound—a low, miserable whimper—as his numb fingers scrabbled with the fastening of the cloak. Once undone, the whole thing fell like a stone, weighed down by the sheer amount of water it had absorbed, and pooled around Pharma’s feet. The jet stood there, utterly wretched and shaking with cold.

Had Tarn been putting the gears to some candidate on the List, this was the point where he permitted himself to feel satisfaction for a job well done. Once a mech reached this point, he’d do anything just to make his suffering stop. Then it was simply a matter of Tarn getting what he needed, whether that was information or a recorded confession or simply a matter of educating the mech in where he’d gone wrong before delivering the coup de grace. 

For Pharma to be in such a state when Tarn had done nothing, though…well, it was ugly. Unnecessary misery was hideous; a pointless waste. In fact, this time Pharma’s suffering was _preventing_ Tarn from getting what he wanted, which was some halfway intelligent and sympathetic company to share good music, fine fuel and sweet candy in front of a blazing hearth. 

Fortunately, Tarn was in perfect control, and he could correct this problem. Tarn spread his arms, stepped forward, and enfolded Pharma in both his cloak and his embrace.

#

Pharma had been a naughty Autobot. Now he’d died, frozen to death in a Messatine blizzard when his mobile repair bay had malfunctioned. The second his spark had faded, it had gone straight to the Inferno. 

Damnation was not hot as popular legend would have had him believe. Instead it was cold, _miserably_ so, with half his cold receptors screaming in agony and the other half numbed, unable to register any sensation at all. This was definitely Hell, though, because only in Hell would Pharma find himself clinging tightly to Tarn’s chest while the DJD commander held him near. 

Only in Hell would even the _pleasure_ be unpleasant. First, there was the fact that he was hugging _Tarn_ of all people—his personal tormentor, a filthy big brute of a Decepticon. Second, his chilled pain receptors ached terribly as they warmed up enough to come online. Third, he’d frozen to death thanks to the miserable son of a glitch he was currently hugging. And fourth, he didn’t ever want Tarn to let him go.

Tarn shifted, emitting a soft grunt from under his mask.

Pharma… _smiled_. His airframe had to be cold to the touch, maybe even cold enough to be painful for someone who’d been waiting for him in a warm tram. Good. _Excellent_. Pharma hoped this _did_ hurt. He hooked his icy little fingers through the gaps in Tarn’s armour, pressing frigid fingers into the warm, tender wiring beneath the plating. Tarn flinched. Pharma fought to keep the smirk off his lips as he thrust his hands in further.

“Feeling better, Doctor?” Tarn purred in Pharma’s audio.

“Yes. No thanks to you.”

“I would say _all_ thanks to me. It is _my_ engine warmth you’re sucking down as fast as your frozen little airframe can absorb, after all.”

“Which I wouldn’t need to do if you hadn’t ordered me out into the snow.”

“It was an invitation, not an order. You wanted to come.”

“Because you’d led me to believe I’d be warmer with you.”

“Oh, you will be. You _will_ be,” Tarn assured him in a silky voice. Pharma felt his tanks turn over. He wasn’t sure if that was a promise, a seduction, or a threat, and he didn’t know which option was worst.

Pharma tried easing away from Tarn, but the tram’s heaters really weren’t up to the job, and he cozied right back up to the tank where the brute’s chest threw off a passible imitation of warmth. Pharma curled his lip—he was nuzzled right up to the hatch he’d installed to make T-cog transplants faster. He could guess what Tarn had been doing right before he’d arrived. His T-cog was positively blazing heat.

Tarn did not push him away. “What happened to your mobile repair bay?” the DJD commander asked instead.

“Not able to handle this weather,” Pharma grumbled. “Oil froze in the lines.”

“ _There_. See? You’ve learned something useful. And if you decide you’re comfortable, you can stay longer with a ready-made excuse. Say you’ve been hunkered down in, oh, I don’t know, a storage depot or some such.”

“I’m not telling you what resources we have or where,” Pharma snapped, wondering if Tarn was fishing for confirmation of the fact that there really was an Autobot storage depot not far from the DJD’s tram station. Maybe Tarn already knew, and was just playing with him.

“I’ll be certain to put that on the list of topics off-limits for tonight,” Tarn responded mildly as the treads on his shoulders rustled and flexed.

Pharma wondered if Tarn were even _aware_ of that low, throaty note in his voice, and what it did to Pharma when he heard it. Oh, everyone at Delphi knew the story about how Tarn could snuff a spark with just his words—First Aid in particular liked to tell that tale to the new miners—but Pharma had never heard, either in official reports or in mess hall rumours, any recognition of the fact that Tarn could use his voice to elicit other sensations than just pain. Right now, for example, Pharma was starting to feel an uncomfortable awareness in the general vicinity of his data port, which would be just fine if he was home alone or, better yet, in the presence of agreeable company (not Ratchet, though—he was in no way hung up on his former conjunx). 

Tarn was most definitely _not_ agreeable company and was the _last_ mech who should be making Pharma hot under the hood. Pharma would rather frag Megatron. Megatron, at least, hadn’t ever personally insulted him.

Pharma wouldn’t put it past Tarn to get him revved up on _purpose_ , just to torture him, but by now Pharma could read Tarn’s body language fairly well. Pharma knew the curl of the fingers against the opposite upper arm that said _do you feel that? Do you? Oh. Oh, that’s not very nice, is it? Are you sorry? Sorry you’ve brought this on yourself?_ Pharma knew the tell-tale tilt of the mask that said _I’m enjoying watching you struggle, but we both know you’re going to give in sooner or later…why don’t you please me by making it sooner? Ah, there you go._ And Pharma knew the swell of the chest and the flare of the biolights that said _I own you, and you belong to me now, and I will do with you as I will._

Pharma could not read Tarn’s erratically rustling treads at all. This cue was new, and potentially ominous.

Who was he kidding? With the DJD, _everything_ was ominous.

Pharma looked around at the tram, in an attempt to avoid looking at the mech who still held him near. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Tarn might not like him looking around the car. The DJD leader might think he was trying to memorize the layout of the vehicle, or to find some maps or operating manuals, or something else subversive that could be of use to Autobot Intelligence. Pharma didn’t want to give the impression that he was being snoopy, so he lowered his gaze and found himself staring at Tarn’s chest.

If he didn’t want to give a wrong impression, he should _definitely_ not be checking out the DJD’s commander.

Pharma finally settled for dimming his optics. Not being able to see Tarn wasn’t particularly comfortable, but Pharma didn’t suppose a few seconds of advance warning would be enough to save him from disaster if Tarn suddenly decided to hurt him. And the darkness _did_ allow Pharma to pretend that he was cozied up with someone a little more pleasant.

That nagging awareness in his port twinged again, and Pharma, disgusted, tried to damp it down. He didn’t have the luxury of indulging in any kind of fantasy when he was a guest of the DJD.

“We’re here,” a voice murmured in his ear.

Pharma brightened his optics. He hadn’t been able to tell if the tram was very fast, or if the DJD base was very close to where he’d met up with Tarn. He wasn’t going to think about it, either. He wasn’t part of the Diplomatic Corps and he wasn’t getting any kind of extra pay from the Autobot Army to risk life and limb fishing for information on the DJD. 

Sure, he’d love to see Tarn and all his little sadistic compatriots put up against the wall for a triple-tap (brain, spark, T-cog…not that Tarn’s T-cog would need a bullet. Usually a single targeted touch would set it crumbling into a smoking ruin) but Pharma worked hard enough in his own chosen field for little enough reward. The Autobots didn’t deserve anything above and beyond out of him.

Pharma pulled away from Tarn as the tram door opened. Still a little shaky on his feet, but adamant that he did _not_ want to lean on Tarn for support, he stumbled out of the tram car and onto the platform.

He usually met Tarn at a little outpost facility that the DJD had set up, allegedly for the sole purpose of Tarn’s examinations and T-cog transplants, but Pharma knew what the dried splatters on the walls and the rusting components in the corners were from. Pharma had buried his inner discomfort under a thick blanketing of irony—the leader of the DJD was asking an Autobot to cut him open on the same table that he used to dismember others. Tarn’s little meeting spot also had an office with a big desk, a big soft chair for Tarn, two wall benches for the other DJD members and a rickety, uncomfortable seat for Pharma. Pharma had taken one glance into the facility’s third room and decided right then and there that if he never set foot in the chamber with the manacles on the wall and the drain in the floor, he was just fine with that.

Pharma had never been to DJD headquarters before, and he hesitated on the platform. It was ten times worse than the tram itself; he didn’t know where to look. He wasn’t counting how many hallways led away from the station, or memorizing what the tram looked like, or trying to calculate the size of the facility…

“Oh dear,” Tarn said as he stepped out behind him. “I’m afraid this is going to be a very unorthodox welcome.”

What did that mean? Pharma had almost summoned the courage to turn and ask when suddenly everything went dark.

Pharma cried out, punching ineffectively, but Tarn picked him right up and…what in the Pit was this? Tarn had one arm around Pharma’s shoulders, another under his knees, and he was kicking empty air and pushing at the tank’s treads through a veil of fabric.

“Stop squirming, please,” Tarn said mildly. A tantalizing wisp of warmth and comfort slid underneath his words. “Otherwise I might drop you.”

“I…I can walk!” Pharma protested. “Get your cape off my head!”

“Really? Because putting out your optics sounds like such an unpleasant start to the evening.” 

It did, at that. Pharma stilled.

“It occurs to me,” Tarn said as he began walking, carrying Pharma in his arms, “that my associates would be most upset if they felt that I’d permitted an Autobot not only to penetrate our base but to run about that base unchecked, gathering information, planting booby traps, stealing supplies, concealing recording devices, and Primus only knows what else. Why, I’d have to put _myself_ on the List for such an egregious oversight. I’m sure you can see how that sort of consequence has the potential to ruin the evening’s enjoyment, so I thought it prudent to simply remove any temptation. After all, my own punishment aside, the consequences for _you_ would be terribly uncomfortable and regrettably _permanent_ , and I would so hate to ruin a lovely evening.”

While Pharma found himself highly amused at the prospect of Tarn’s name on his own List, the tank’s subsequent threat sobered the medic quickly. Primus, what had he been _thinking_ to agree to come here? “Let’s make a deal,” Pharma said, speaking up so his voice wouldn’t be too muffled by the cloak over his head. “I don’t do anything that would get you put on the List…no espionage, no sabotage, no mention to anyone that I was ever here…and you let me go back to Delphi on time and unharmed.”

“And I let you go back to Delphi on time and with no visible damage,” Tarn countered. “Hidden damage is going to depend on…well. I really do hope you don’t force me to punish you for inappropriate behaviour.”

“Is that sarcasm?” Pharma grumbled.

“I really _don’t_ want to work any more tonight, and that is _not_ sarcasm.”

Pharma blinked. He’d never thought of Tarn’s… _methods of persuasion_ …as _work_. He’d just thought the DJD commander was a sadist who got off on torture. On the other hand, Pharma himself was a medic, but that didn’t mean he spent every moment of his spare time studying medical literature and sending nurses off-shift early so he could perform minor procedures. 

_Everyone needs a break_.

“I don’t want you to do any more work tonight, either,” Pharma said honestly. 

A strange vibration passed from the tank’s chest into Pharma’s side. It struck him all of a sudden that Tarn was chuckling.

“Here we are, then.”

Pharma let out an undignified yelp as he found himself lowered, but Tarn had a good grip on his shoulders. The Decepticon wasn’t dropping him. Tarn even lowered his legs first, so he had a chance to get his feet under him before he had to trust his legs to bear his weight. He was still a little numb in places and oversensitized in others from his time outdoors, but he managed to stand with a minimum of swaying. The cloak still shrouded his body, and he hated the way it tickled his face, but he felt as though trying to claw it off might cause Tarn to…have to go to work, so he left it there.

Pharma heard motion, then the sound of a door closing and locking.

Then, in one single swift motion, the cloak was pulled away from Pharma’s body, and his jaw dropped open at the sight of the room before him.


	4. Straight to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because nothing says the holiday season like blizzards and too much to drink. :)

Chapter Four: Straight to Hell

Tarn watched Pharma looking around the DJD commander’s private chambers and found himself delighted by the sight.

Tarn had some very nice things in his rooms: beautiful pieces of art, ornately shaped furniture, historically significant artifacts, and luxurious cushions and blankets. The fireplace itself was a masterwork, built by skilled artisans, crowned with a carved Decepticon shield above the roaring hearth. It was odd to think how seeing the same things day in and day out could inoculate a mechanism against their delights. Now, seeing Pharma view Tarn’s collection for the first time gave Tarn a new appreciation for his possessions. 

Pharma’s jaw dropped. “Is that…that’s a _reproduction_ , surely.” He gestured to the holograph mounted on the north wall.

“Oh, no, that’s the original.”

Pharma’s optics glittered. He took a step forward, impulsively; then he hesitated. “May I…”

“Of course,” Tarn said smoothly, because he was a gracious host, and he was more than happy to engage Pharma in a conversation about art. 

Pharma wasted no time in skipping right up to the piece and watching its colours and patterns shift through their various sequences. “I’d always thought it had been destroyed.”

“It would have been, if I’d left it where I found it.” Never mind that it would have been Decepticons responsible for the destruction. They’d been a good unit, really, but all labourers; mechanisms who’d had no concept of the significance of what they’d been about to destroy. He’d put them on the List, but later regretted it and removed their names…well, most of their names. Tarn’s sober second thought had come too late for two of their number.

“It’s amazing. The reproductions—they don’t do it justice.”

“Nobody ever seems to get the cyan to magenta progression right. A true shame. The artist was clearly trying to link the light of the Matrix to spilled energon. Tinting the cyan into green ruins the effect.”

Pharma nodded, entranced. Tarn saw an advantage, and took it. While the medic stared at the art, Tarn reached into Pharma’s bag and removed… _oh, yes._ Genuine Macaalex Platinum.

Tarn opened the bottle, enjoying the old-fashioned turnkey. He wished he had more time to savour the experience, but he didn’t want to let Pharma get bored. Bored would quickly lead to frightened and Tarn already knew what the mech was like when scared into knee-quivering silence: perfectly agreeable when Tarn was trying to maneuver him into doing something, but not a state conducive to two-way conversation.

He poured the liquid into two crystal goblets, taking just an instant to savour the rich scent of quintuple-filtered engex, before setting the bottle in a bucket to keep it at the optimum temperature. Tarn’s drink was just a little fuller and graced with his customary drinking straw. Scooping up the goblets, he returned to his guest’s side. “A toast, then. To the finer things in life.”

Pharma looked startled as he accepted the drink. Ah, engex: the cause of, and solution to, so many of life’s problems. The medic froze as Tarn clinked his glass against Pharma’s. As if shocked out of his immobility by the sound, Pharma drank a little too deeply and almost coughed.

Tarn deactivated his fuel intake moderation chip and took a deep draw through his straw. The flavour exploded on his tongue, dredging up decadent memories of a time before war, a time before traitors and idiots and chasing all over the universe after mechs who insisted on their futile attempts at evasion. Those were the days when sparks were extinguished by the wave of a stylus or a word of command; when splatters of spilled fuel covered the frames of the enforcers who were his weapons and his instruments…

These days a mech had to do so much _himself_. Oh, but Tarn would not let himself forget what Cybertron had been in its glory days, and what it would someday be again. This taste would help him to remember. This magnificent _taste…_

Tarn took another sip and then a terrifying thought occurred to him.

The fuel burned pleasantly on its way down his throat. It hummed in his tanks, warming him from the inside out. He was a big, powerful mech, but Macaalex Platinum was notoriously strong and even he would not be immune to its effects if he drank a whole half-bottle.

The Decepticon Army had a rule against becoming intoxicated while on duty. Getting drunk in the presence of the enemy was just _stupid_. Bringing an Autobot into his base, into his personal living space, and proceeding to get himself overenergized wasn’t merely _ill-advised_ , it was downright _criminally negligent_.

He’d have to put himself on his own List at this rate.

Tarn sighed and re-engaged his FIM chip. His third swallow of Macaalex was…flat. Lifeless. By the Smelter, this was _criminal_. He couldn’t drink it like this! He would be _wasting_ it.

Tarn considered saving the rest of the bottle for later, when he was alone in the base again. The problem with that plan was that he’d have to presume Pharma wouldn’t just drink the whole damned thing first. He couldn’t exactly tell the Autobot to stop drinking, either, not when Pharma had finally started warming up to him and besides, it would be a terribly inhospitable thing for any host to do.

Tarn swirled the liquid in his glass and tried to think of a way out of this predicament. 

His optics slid over Pharma again. The Autobot medic had a light, stylish airframe, too small to haul cargo, too delicate for extreme speeds. What would the Functionists have done with that alt mode, if Pharma had not been forged with a medic’s hands and a suitable shape to become a medivac? A courier, perhaps, or maybe… 

Pharma strolled to the next piece of art. Tarn couldn’t be sure the medic didn’t just want to put some distance between them, but regardless, Pharma’s every movement filled with measured grace. Tarn reconsidered his classification of Pharma’s alternate function. _Maybe even a wind dancer._

Tarn sucked hard on his straw, filling his mouth with flat, ineffectual engex. His optics seemed glued to the sleek curves of Pharma’s wings, the powerful engine on his back, the delicate shape of his ankles. Primus, he needed the full effect to be able to truly appreciate the rare engex and _this companion_.

To the Smelter with it. There was no way a delicate frame like Pharma’s could handle anywhere near the amount of engex that his own big, fuel-hungry body burned through. Tarn deactivated his FIM chip, feeling the warmth of the energon wash through all his fuel lines with a decadent and glorious burning. 

He didn’t have to be sober. He only had to be more sober than Pharma and sufficiently in control to make sure the Autobot wasn’t doing anything untoward. 

#

The art truly was magnificent. The DJD…or Tarn, at least…had assembled a collection worthy of a museum. It wasn’t anywhere near as large as the Iacon Gallery at its height—Tarn’s private chambers were big, but nowhere near that big. Still, the selection was impressive and that was only what was out on display here, in this living room of sorts, with the little office nook tucked away on one side and a small but lavishly appointed kitchen on the other. There was a small hall in the back of the suite, leading to what Pharma guessed was the recharge chamber and a private wash station, and it didn’t matter if Tarn had the Hand of Primus itself back there, he was _not_ about to set foot in Tarn’s sleeping quarters.

Yes, the biggest problem with Tarn’s collection was Tarn himself. The big tank followed Pharma around the room, and as far as Pharma could tell, while he was appreciating the art, Tarn was appreciating _him_. He didn’t like it. It made him feel…weird. Uncomfortable and intrigued, excited and anxious all jumbled up into one.

Or maybe that was the engex in his goblet.

“You know,” Tarn said conversationally, joining him in front of an exotically carved Lithonian sculpture, “am I correct in thinking there was something particularly special about this vintage?” The DJD commander swirled the engex in his goblet with a snap of the wrist that seemed far too flamboyant and theatrical for a big, armoured war machine. Pharma doubted they taught that gesture at the Polyhex War Academy. It begged the question: where _had_ Tarn picked it up? Probably an attempt to emulate the artists he patronized.

Pharma bit his tongue and tried very hard not to laugh.

“It reviewed quite favourably,” he said instead, but, Primus, now that he thought about it, Tarn might be correct. Had there been some sort of added attribute to the Platinum blends that year? Pharma couldn’t quite recall. “Does it please you?”

“It does indeed,” Tarn replied with a chuckle, “far more than any of the applicants whose resumes I reviewed tonight. And you? Would you rather be back in Delphi right now?”

Pharma frowned down at his glass, because the honest answer to that was _no_. Tarn’s quarters were gloriously warm and filled with interesting art and devoid of any of the typical Delphi stupidity. The only problem was that Tarn’s quarters were also filled with _Tarn_.

“That depends,” Pharma countered lightly, “on if there’s good music and snacks to be found here.”

“Ah, yes, the music,” Tarn replied, not the least bit put out by Pharma’s request to get to the good part. “Have a seat and make yourself comfortable while I put on the recording.”

Pharma looked around. There was the big couch, which was practically big enough to be a berth for mechs of his size, and the small couch, which would fit him much better. There was also the desk chair in Tarn’s office nook, but Pharma felt that slipping in there to get the seat might expose his optics to the kind of classified information that would get them ripped from his head, and his brain module right after. He decided to sit on the smaller couch and hope for the best.

Tarn fussed with the entertainment console, and then swaggered—there was no other word for it—back towards the smaller couch. The DJD commander seemed inordinately pleased with himself. Much to Pharma’s dismay, Tarn elected to join him on the other side of the small couch, rather than sitting on the larger one. At least Tarn had the good graces to keep to his own side and not crowd Pharma.

Still, Pharma took another large sip of engex that was going to do nothing for him so long as he had his FIM chip engaged.

“Are you ready?” Tarn inquired. Funny how Pharma couldn’t see the Decepticon’s lips through that hideous mask he wore welded over his face, and yet he could sense the smile in the Decepticon’s voice.

“I am,” Pharma said primly.

“If you get cold…” Now Tarn sounded amused, and Pharma barely had opportunity to register alarm before Tarn was right next to him, pulling down a blanket that had covered the back of the sofa and flicking it over Pharma’s wings.

It was deliciously soft, plush and decadent, with fine micro-fibres that stroked and tickled Pharma’s frame, but he couldn’t enjoy it so long as he remained unnerved that someone so big could move so quickly. In another beat of his fuel pump, Tarn was back on his own side of the couch, crossing one leg over the other and sipping at his drink.

Then the DJD commander pressed the play button on his remote.

With the sudden clash of cymbals, Pharma was taken away: before Delphi, before the war. Libretto’s rich voice lifted him like an updraft, carrying him far away from substandard repair bays on primitive planets, from endless tides of bloody soldiers and the cries of shrieking civilians in ash-strewn streets. This song came from a world where he and Ratchet and the other doctors were well-respected professionals, paid accordingly not merely in shanix but in social cachet, and those like Pharma…they were the cream of Cybertron’s crop. The ancient nobility, with their graceful frames and stylish alt modes, the lithe jets and sleek racers, the princes of turbojet, the kings of another day….

_This_ was where Pharma belonged. _This_ was where he deserved to be, in a place where he was recognized not only for his skill but for his innate superiority, in the company of other mechanisms as accomplished as he, savouring the finer things in life as only those with the appropriate knowledge and skill and culture and consummate good taste could possibly do.

The music played on, and Pharma took in the roaring fireplace, the magnificent art, the delicious engex, and his companion…

_Urgh, Tarn._

It was the equivalent of an Insecticon larva in his engex, or a discordant note blatted through the heart of a glorious symphony. He didn’t even dare dim his optics and remove the offensive sight of his unwelcome associate, because he didn’t trust what Tarn might do to him when he wasn’t looking. Pharma missed the end of the first recording because he was too busy warily watching Tarn from the corner of his optic while pretending to look into the flames. 

“More engex?” Tarn inquired, pausing the recording while he poured himself a second serving of Macaalex.

Pharma looked down at his only half-consumed glass. “I’m good for now. But don’t restrain yourself on my account.”

“No?” Tarn looked over at him, optics twinkling, and it suddenly occurred to Pharma that Tarn could take that comment in another and very unwelcome way. The medic fidgeted.

“Hungry, dear Doctor?” Tarn asked.

He wasn’t, not in the least. At least, not until Tarn took a small blue box off the end table and opened a clever little drawer that pulled out the front. 

EthySlivers. Pharma had forgotten about them. Now, all of a sudden a craving for the flavour rushed through his systems. He reached for one, mouth watering, because he could practically _taste_ them…

Tarn jerked the box out of reach.

Pharma glared at him, irritated at both Tarn and himself. How could _he_ have expected better from the commander of the DJD?

Tarn smirked. “Such a sulky face. Here.” He took out a sliver and held it out to Pharma, holding it between thumb and forefinger. 

“You want me to eat out of your hand.”

“Mustn’t have you eating yourself sick,” Tarn admonished.

“I thought it was _you_ who lacked the self-control to not eat the whole box.”

“Well, if you don’t _want_ this candy, I could eat it…?”

Grumbling, Pharma leaned forward and slipped it between his lips. He allowed Tarn to push it into his mouth, and _by Primus_ , it was twice as delicious as he remembered.

“Another?” Tarn asked.

“…yes,” Pharma said grudgingly, and Tarn obliged, but not before using the sliver to outline Pharma’s lips, making him reach for it with his tongue before he let Pharma have it.

Pharma didn’t like to be bested. He sucked sullenly on the sliver and thought of a way to get revenge. “More Macaalex?” he asked, making a show of topping up his own glass.

“I think I will,” Tarn said, placing his glass in front of Pharma.

Pharma scowled as he filled it up. He’d thought he’d be able to sit here with his FIM chip engaged and watch the DJD commander drink himself into a state of harmless intoxication. The _problem_ with that was that the very _idea_ of socializing with Tarn made Pharma crave engex, even the crude cheap thick stuff that the miners favoured. Instead, he sat here, fully alert, watching Tarn having a lovely time and putting up with Tarn’s not entirely terrible attempts at flirting. _Please, dear Primus, please don’t make me do this sober._

The music played while Pharma nipped delicately at his glass. The engex was every bit as good as Mirage had led him to believe, and he’d taken some consolation in the fact that he still had the rest of the case back in Delphi. He’d be able to enjoy that, he told himself as Tarn poured himself another serving. Right now, the music and the warm blanket would have to be enough.

Libretto’s voice rose into a glorious crescendo. Now the big Decepticon was on his third drink and Pharma was still only halfway through his topped-up first. At this rate, Tarn was going to drink the whole damned bottle and Pharma would have only had a _taste_. 

_It’s too dangerous for me to get overenergized when I’m this deep in enemy territory_.

Still, this was a rare vintage, and there was no more where this case came from. 

Scowling, Pharma reached for the box of EthySlivers. He needed a sweet treat to remind himself why this evening was worth it. A candy in his mouth, Libretto singing…and Pharma would risk dimming his optics so he wouldn’t have to look at Tarn. That could be tolerable. 

Tarn must’ve seen Pharma’s hand moving out of the corner of his optic, because he promptly set the candy box on his lap.

To the Pit with it. Pharma was not going to do this sober.

Pharma deactivated his FIM chip and felt the pleasant blurring sensation fog his brain module almost instantly. He rotated in his seat, leaning not against the couch back but against Tarn’s shoulder. “No more sweets?” he wheedled.

“All you had to do was ask nicely,” Tarn purred. Seconds later, a sweet sliver slid between Pharma’s lips. Pharma pursed his lips and sucked, which seemed to please Tarn immensely, given the increased vibrations from the tank’s blocky engine.

Pharma had this vague feeling that he ought to be concerned. The trouble was, he just couldn’t imagine why. The Macaalex Platinum told him he was feeling just fine, and when it suggested he get another glass, he couldn’t find any reason to disagree.


	5. Spanish Burgundy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for all my fellow DJD-lovers and Tarn fans out there....you know who you are!!!

Chapter Five: Spanish Burgundy

Tarn chuckled to himself as he watched Pharma sipping delicately on his…Tarn wasn’t entirely sure how many glasses of Macaalex Platinum quintuple-filtered engex the doctor had consumed, but the bottle was getting close to empty. The recording had come to its finale, too, and Tarn discreetly pressed “replay” on the remote sitting on the end table. In a crash of cymbals, the performance began again from the start.

Tarn smiled when Pharma did not seem to notice that the music was repeating itself. The doctor’s attention was riveted on the half-empty box of EthySlivers still resting near Tarn’s hand. _Ah_ , Tarn thought to himself. _He thinks he’s not going to get any more._

_Well, might as well play along._ Tarn slid a candy through the slit in his mask and sucked it into his mouth. Pharma scowled. The doctor’s expression was so delectable that it more than made up for the fact that EthySlivers were far too sweet for Tarn’s taste. Tarn rolled the candy around his mouth in a show of enjoyment while Pharma quivered in thwarted indignation. Finally, the doctor’s emotion overcame his restraint and he snapped, “You’re going to make yourself sick on those.”

Tarn hadn’t eaten half as many as Pharma had, but where was the fun in admitting that? “Would you like another?” Tarn asked, taking it out of the box and holding it on the opposite side of his body from Pharma. With his other hand, he took a deep drink, rinsing the overly-sweet flavour away.

He’d expected Pharma to ask nicely, or maybe grab for it. He hadn’t expected Pharma to lean right over his lap and pluck it delicately from his hand with his teeth.

Oh, but now Tarn had a pretty white jet stretched across his lap. Pharma tried to back up, but Tarn’s other arm had slid under his wings, and when the medic put his weight on his knees to return to his previous position, he ran into Tarn’s forearm. The look of surprise on his delicate features was a delight.

Pharma put his hands down on the other side of Tarn’s lap to keep his balance, and, kneeling on all fours, he looked up at Tarn with an expression of consternation as he swallowed down the candy. His throat cables flexed in a very attractive way that Tarn enjoyed watching.

“I said all you had to do was _ask_ ,” Tarn murmured. He thought he might be infusing his voice with pleasurable coercion again, and then decided he didn’t care if he was. A lapful of jet was very nice indeed, and he’d rather like Pharma to stay where he was, without any of that messy restraint business. “But if you’d rather just make yourself comfortable here, then I can work with that, too.”

“I…this wasn’t my idea!” Pharma spluttered.

“Wasn’t it?” Tarn inquired. “You’re the one who came over to my side of the couch.”

“But I…”

“And you’re the one who touched me.”

“But you…”

“It’s all right,” Tarn purred. “I don’t mind at all.”

Pharma rose up on his knees, looking bewildered. Tarn chuckled, pleased with himself and how he’d clearly addled the poor doctor. He was going to have Pharma eating out of his hand in no time.

Then Pharma did something Tarn could never have foreseen.

Tarn wasn’t certain if it was the Macaalex going to his head, the influence of Tarn’s voice on his spark, or—was it possible? –something in the doctor’s own desires, but the next thing Tarn knew, Pharma half-spun and tucked his leg over Tarn’s far hip.

Tarn watched in utter amazement as Pharma sat right on his lap, facing him, cozying close. The doctor’s expression was coy, even as he’d occupied Tarn’s lap with the confidence of someone who’d presumed he had every right to do so. “Please,” Pharma said, and while his tone was polite, his smile was pure wickedness. “May I have another?”

And Tarn found himself thoroughly unable to deny that request. Shocked speechless, he picked up a candy and held it up to Pharma. The doctor wrapped his delicate hands around Tarn’s wrist and took a teasing lick of the proffered treat.

This scenario was completely unexpected, and Tarn was taken aback. He couldn’t seem to focus his attention on anything but the slow glide of Pharma’s tongue over the candy and…and over Tarn’s fingers… _That had to be on purpose_! 

Pharma’s smirk broadened. Tarn’s mind began flashing urgent warning signals. The situation had suddenly gotten completely out of his control. 

People just did not treat the head of the Decepticon Justice Division this way. He had no idea what had possessed Pharma to do this, or what was going to happen next, and it should be concerning him. He should be desperate to transform and reassert his self-mastery by the precise rearrangement of his panels and gears. He was not. His desperation instead centered on…on…

Pharma’s lovely wings gleamed in the light of his fire. They were gorgeous, just begging him to touch. Libretto sang of life’s rare pleasures, of savouring the fine things, and who was Tarn to deny the advice of such an artist?

His left hand gripped the candy tightly. His right hand, trembling, reached out and tentatively trailed down the camber of that pretty wing.

Pharma dimmed his optics and arched into the caress, sighing with appreciation.

Tarn needed no further incentive.

#

Pharma pressed his cheek to the gently yielding grip of heavy treads covering broad shoulders and sighed in perfect contentment.

A big, powerful engine rumbled somewhere inside the mechanism who held Pharma on his lap. Pharma could feel the vibrations as a tingling sensation emanating inside his companion’s warm bodyshell, travelling through the other mech’s armour and into Pharma’s own, teasing the medic’s sensors and playing havoc with his neural net, making him aware of his own body in a way he hadn’t been before. Pharma’s own little engine purred at a lighter, faster rate, with a higher-pitched sound and a much gentler vibration cycle. Pharma wondered if the other mech could even feel Pharma’s engine through his armour. Maybe it felt like a little insect, or a sprinkle of rain. Meanwhile, the thunder of his partner’s engine rocked Pharma’s world.

Pharma had often sat on Ratchet like this: his knees straddling the Chief Medical Officer’s hips, his aft perched on Ratchet’s thighs, his cheek on Ratchet’s shoulder and the Chief Medical Officer stroking his wings. He’d grinned to himself, treating the honoured Chief Medical Officer like his personal furniture, sitting on him while Ratchet worshiped Pharma with his hands and his mouth. Pharma liked to be petted. Praised. Exalted. 

But some small, dark part of him had always thrilled to the rumble of Ratchet’s engine, to the solidity of the ambulance under him, to the acknowledgment of Ratchet’s superior strength. Ratchet had always been strong, stable, a rock, while Pharma had been more beautiful, more graceful, more daring…more likely to fly too close to the sun and be burned. Pharma had mocked Ratchet for his stodgy persistence because Pharma could not replicate it. And yet, in his secret heart, he’d craved it—the reassurance, the stability, the sensation of being tended to. Those precious moments where for once, for once, he could stop trying to prove himself the superior and simply _be taken care of_.

Once Ratchet left him, who would take care of him?

He had thought he’d wanted Ratchet back. Hah! What need did he have for Ratchet _now?_ Look where he’d ended up. 

Oh, _Primus_ , this was marvellous. Big, strong hands caressed his jet engine housing as Pharma pressed his chest closer to the mech he sat on. That huge frame threw off heat that felt so blessed _good_ ; between the mech against his front and the fire at his back, Pharma had never been so warm since he first set foot on Messatine. 

By the _Matrix_ , being with Ratchet had _never_ felt like this. This mech’s frame was just so big, so powerful, his engine so deep and forceful, his hands so large as they roamed across Pharma’s frame, treasuring and claiming. Pharma threw back his head and mewled in appreciation while the Macaalex blurred his vision into a watercolour haze. He raised his arms, the better to show off his body to his appreciative partner. _Primus…Primus help him…_

Pharma’s vision blurred from the engex until he could barely see the mech he was with—the owner of those hands that stroked him with surprising delicacy and devastating precision despite their size and raw strength. Come to think of it, he couldn’t exactly remember how he’d ended up on this fellow’s lap, or why he’d deemed it appropriate to sit so closely and display his body so provocatively to someone who clearly could smash Pharma’s plating in if he took a mind to do so. Pharma wasn’t _cheap_ ; superiority and exclusivity went hand-in-hand. He was very choosy about who he permitted to worship him…

…and it occurred to his engex-fogged brain that it was very strange that he’d picked some big armoured brute to get cozy with. He lowered his arms to knead his partner’s shoulders, and he could feel thick treads under his hands. He could sense heavy armour panels under his aft. Just the sheer size and shape of the mech meant he had to be some kind of cargo hauler or utility vehicle or…oh, maybe some sort of military alt mode, a self-propelled gun or a tank. How _brutish_. Pharma shuddered, from a bizarre mixture of revulsion and arousal.

Oh. Oh _no_.

Wasn’t that the medical definition of a fetish – when gratification was linked to a non-sexual object, body part or activity by an unusual degree? There was no reason a bulky frame and heavy armour should be turning Pharma on. If anything, they should be turning him _off_. Menial, working-class louts were beneath his contempt. And yet…and yet…the very _shamefulness_ of it made his engine rev even louder, as though to spite his logical mind. He should not want this and so he wanted it more than ever.

Pharma gritted his teeth and added _big assault vehicles_ to his list of fetishes, right underneath _body worship_ and _wing play_.

#

Tarn ran the palms of his hands over the delicate leading edges of graceful white wings.

Pretty, _pretty_ wings.

Oh, and he knew better. Deep in his spark, he knew better. The Decepticon movement existed to tear down the Cybertronian elite—the pompous, self-serving senators, the spoiled nobles of Vos and Praxus, the courtiers and courtesans. The Decepticon movement would make culture and art accessible to everyone, level the playing field, permit everyone from the lowest disposable to the most pedigreed wing dancer to understand beauty and truth. And if, so far, all the movement had done was to make art still more rare—to create a world where grace and wisdom lay far from the energon-splattered battlefields, the rain and mud and fire—well, what was rare would be valued when the war came to an end, when equality was achieved and when the uses of weapons had been forgotten. _Then_ the true victory would be won.

_That_ was where Tarn’s mind should be focused. He should spend more time learning to accept that there was a simple, honest beauty in the plain lines of the disposable class. He should spend more time meditating on the purity of function to be found in the thick armour and fearsome rifled gun barrels of the self-propelled guns and ground-strike aircraft, of those whose alt modes existed solely to win the Decepticon victory. Modes like his own, now. He should understand that this was where his true appreciation should lie.

Oh, but Tarn loved the _pretty wings_.

Pharma’s alt mode was too light to carry cargo and supplies, and too slim to hold up to the rigors of battle. Tarn had sought out and read all Pharma’s files. A few conversions had altered him into a medivac—a swift aircraft designed to airlift casualties and deliver them to hospital—but that wasn’t quite what he’d come online to become. He didn’t have the sharp, lethal beauty of the Seekers, who were made to hunt and catch, to stalk and strike. Pharma’s alt mode was more delicate, more graceful, and in another world he might have been a wing dancer, maybe even…maybe even…

Tarn’s mouth went dry. Pharma’s noble pedigree was clear in every inch of his frame; in a processor that, for all his medical reputation had been earned, had nevertheless come online believing in its own unassailable superiority as not a matter of ego but simply a matter of _fact_.

Pharma was, in short, everything that the Decepticon movement raged against. A living incarnation of the belief that some were born superior to others. Tarn should shove Pharma to his knees, humble him, humiliate him. Tear off those pretty wings and force him to recant. Make him beg for mercy before crushing that egotistical little spark.

But if Tarn did that, he’d never get to pet those wings and hear Pharma sigh in pleasure. He’d never get to admire that beautiful chassis, shining in the light of the fire; to run his hands over those clean, smooth lines and watch Pharma stretch his arms above his head, the better to show off that gorgeous frame. He’d never get to worship the mech who perched on his lap, a living work of art, a beauty who’d come _of his own volition_ to invite Tarn to touch, to savour, to please him…

And Tarn gave up the whole of his Decepticon ideals, and with his whole heart accepted the role of a warbuild, a weapon at his superior’s command, a tool to serve his commander’s needs, a servant to obey his Master’s pleasure.

#

Pharma could not remember the last time he had felt this good.

Maybe it was the engex, of which he’d had far too much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this intoxicated, either. The world looked like watercolours to his optics, hazy and indistinct. For some reason, though, his fuel tank felt fine: not overly full, not corroded, not uncomfortable in the least. 

Maybe it was that he was _warm_. Magnificently, delightfully, flagrantly warm. He needed no blankets, no tarps, no coverings. The fire at his back and the powerful mech at his front both radiated heat and kept Pharma in total comfort, even with his wings stretched wide. Pharma did not recall why he expected to be cold, but there was no uncomfortable chill here. It was glorious.

But no.

Pharma knew, in his secret spark, that the true reason for his pleasure was the worshipper beneath him.

Oh, yes. Pharma threw back his head and thrust out his chest as the warbuild under him bowed his head and licked a reverent trail from shoulder to cockpit, caressing him with his tongue. Pharma leaned back into broad hands that caught his shoulders, supporting him while his lover’s adoration continued. 

He had been unappreciated for too long. Far too long. But now…

Now, he was finally getting what he deserved.

#

He wasn’t Megatron.

Tarn felt inexplicably guilty about his lapful of pretty white flyer. It was hardly this one’s fault that he wasn’t Megatron. Most people weren’t.

Megatron was one of a kind, the hero of his age, and the center of Tarn’s universe. Tarn could not imagine what direction his life might have taken without Megatron as his beacon, giving him purpose and meaning. All the art and culture in the world was useless if allowed to stagnate; failure to grow and learn and advance would cause creativity to curdle and rot from the inside out from the corruption of its own decadence.

Megatron had taken an artist, and made of him his instrument.

Tarn was ever grateful. He would never want to imply that he was not. Tarn would not dream of insinuating that there was a _problem_ with Megatron’s decisions. Megatron was, after all, focused on liberation and his self-determination; it was understandable that Megatron would not accept enslavement of his fellow Decepticons.

No matter how _willingly_ those Decepticons wore their chains.

Megatron had not _wanted_ Tarn’s vow of eternal devotion, not to the extent that Tarn wished to give it. In time they had come to a mostly unspoken agreement. Tarn would not expect Megatron to act as his Master in public, and Megatron would not inquire as to the nature of the private oaths which Tarn had taken.

So Megatron had his Justice Division, and Tarn had his Master. It had been right and good.

But Tarn’s spark protested that while a trusted military unit might be granted a measure of freedom from oversight, a slave must always be kept in thrall to his Master. Otherwise he might… _misbehave_. Consider, for example, this delicate Autobot on Tarn’s lap, who had slid so neatly into the Master’s seat that Megatron had left vacant.

That couldn’t have happened if Megatron had been properly occupying it, now could it?

A dark voice in Tarn’s head whispered that it served Megatron _right_. Megatron had always been so reluctant to allow Tarn to service him, to permit Tarn to adore him, to _use_ Tarn once he had claimed him. There had been a brief and glorious training regime and a once-in-a-lifetime celebration of his achievement and then…then…

Ever after, Megatron had held Tarn at arm’s length. For a long time, Tarn had admired his leader’s methods as delightfully cruel, the way Megatron kept him on the hook, sending him forth to do his bidding in exchange for the rare and unutterably precious rewards: Megatron’s attention, sometimes even Megatron’s _touch_. For a long time Tarn had accepted this arrangement as his Master’s Will.

But now, with the engex opening new doors in his mind—doors Tarn had thought sealed closed long ago—Tarn realized that what he truly felt, deep in his spark, was forgotten. _Forsaken_. 

Oh, his mind and spark still belonged to the Decepticon Cause. There was never any doubt about that.

For just one night, though, his body would be his own, to use as he willed.

And Tarn’s will was to use his frame in the service of beauty.

This white-winged beauty, in particular.


	6. TGIF (Last Friday Night)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The playlist for this story is long overdue, so here’s where the chapter titles come from and who sings them:
> 
> “Drinking with the Devil” by Rainbow  
> “Everybody Wants To Rule the World” by Tears for Fears  
> “Burning for You” by Blue Oyster Cult  
> “One Way Ticket (To Hell and Back)” by The Darkness  
> “Straight to Hell” by Great Big Sea  
> “Spanish Burgundy” by Tom Russell Band  
> “TGIF (Last Friday Night)” by Katy Perry
> 
> And, as a teaser…I’m going to post the epilogue as a separate fic.
> 
> Also, emetophobia warning in this chapter in which a character thinks he doesn't feel so good (no actual illness).
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

Pharma woke up to a pounding in his head and the feeling of a large, warm body tight up against his. 

Well, at least he was _warm_. Primus knew that wamth was hard to come by on Messatine. There were probably a lot of worse places to be than here in this…was this a berth? Pharma activated his optics and tilted his head. No…it was a sofa. He was lying on his left side, his head pillowed by a cushion. His wings were pressed against the padded chair back, and his cockpit was tucked against someone else’s chest. A thick, plush microfiber blanket covered both Pharma and his partner, who was an unidentifiable purple blur.

It wasn’t like Pharma to fall asleep on a sofa. His head throbbed again, and his fuel tanks churned with the unmistakable feeling of engex overindulgence. Groaning, he re-engaged his fuel intake moderation chip.

Primus, it was nice and toasty here. Pharma cozied up to his companion, wondering who’d had the nerve to stay the night with him and feeling rather glad the mech had. Pharma could get used to having his berth warmed like this. Big fellow, though…must be one of the miners. He’d been that desperate—or that blinded by the drink? Ugh, slumming…

Pharma felt his usual distaste immediately followed by a hot, hard flash of arousal straight to the spark chamber.

_Fetish._

_You want it because you shouldn’t want it._

_Mmmm, heavy armour._ Pharma’s hands moved over his companion of their own accord and Pharma found what they encountered to be very much to his liking. 

Last night had evidently been more educational than Pharma had bargained on. He still wasn’t sure what his sober mind would make of this new revelation; it was still trying to parse the delights of flexible treads and deep growling engine reverberations. Regardless, though, it was time for him to take control of the situation and put his cannon-fodder playmate back in his pace.

Pharma stretched, purring, and lifted the edge of the blanket.

Looked into a face that was not a face at all, but a mask.

Screamed.

#

Tarn had been dozing contentedly, enjoying the warm, pliable body cuddled up next to him, when all of a sudden the blanket vanished from his face. He’d been hit by three things in quick succession: cold air, light, and Pharma yelling.

Tarn sat up, snatching the double-barrelled fusion cannon from its mount on his back and flicking off its safety. The twinned guns hummed as they spooled up energy. Tarn lowered the weapon defensively, his gaze sweeping the chamber, looking for a fight or a threat or… He saw nothing but his own room, his fireplace burned down to embers. No targets anywhere.

Tarn realized belatedly that Pharma was screaming at _him_ with a voice like an emergency vehicle’s siren.

The DJD commander gave Pharma a rueful glare. “Is that _really_ necessary?”

“What did you do to me?” the physician demanded, outraged. He jerked his hands off Tarn’s body and clasped his own cockpit. “What did you _do_?”

What _had_ he done?

Tarn was not the kind of mechanism to get blasted out of his mind on engex. Never mind the usual questions of professionalism and reputation; Tarn’s very _voice_ was a weapon. Soldiers could lay down their guns, and warriors could sheathe their blades, but there was no way for Tarn to safely store away his most lethal armament. The only possible answer had been to keep his fuel intake moderaction chip fully activated, and that was what he had always done. After all, what civilized mechanism would waste engex by consuming it while too drunk to appreciate its subtle flavours?

Tarn’s gaze fell on the empty bottle of Macaalex Platinum, lying on its side on the end table next to two glasses, and he began to understand. The effects of that year’s vintage had not been overstated, it seemed. 

An ugly suspicion formed in his mind as he turned his attention back to the irate Autobot medic. Pharma clambered over him and stood on the floor, fists clasped at his sides, wings bristling in fury. Any logical fear of the DJD had been overridden by pure incensed anger. 

Tarn stood as well, facing off with Pharma. Pharma, who had brought that engex here. Pharma, who had given it to him. “You _spiked_ it,” he hissed. “What did you put in it?”

What had Pharma done to him while he’d been under the influence of the doctor’s pernicious drink?

“I didn’t put anything in it!” Pharma roared, as though he’d somehow managed to be insulted and outraged even further. “You’re the one who…who pawed me while I was sleeping!”

Tarn didn’t remember any pawing. He did, however, remember the white jet easing closer and closer to him while Libretto sang. “ _You’re_ the one who cuddled up with me, you…you…harlot!”

“ _I’m_ the harlot?! _I’m_ not the one who…” Pharma looked suddenly ill. Then he turned on his feet and bolted out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Tarn demanded, frustrated, confused and more than a little frightened.

Pharma’s response was the sound of a door—Tarn’s closet, of all things—slamming shut.

*

Pharma had been hoping for a wash station or maybe an archive, but a closet would have to do. He fumbled with the door and found that he could not lock it from the inside. He almost sobbed – the only guarantee he had of privacy was an easily-turning handle – but it would have to do. He had to know. 

Shaking, he unfastened the clips of his armour and started his internal diagnostic scans.

He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have let Tarn jack into him. Surely he had at least put up a fight—but there were no scratches on his paint, no dents in his plating, no scuffs on his joints. 

Oh, Primus help him. His fans were running hot and he couldn’t get them to stop, and his head was spinning as his fuel intake moderation chip burned off the last of the engex far more quickly than was good for his systems, and his fuel tanks were sloshing with nausea and he feared he was going to be sick.

Waking up in a berth with Tarn.

 _It was a couch_ , his brain helpfully offered, but that knowledge was no help at all.

Fumbling with the clasps of the armour—the still-firmly-attached clasps, the completely undamaged clasps, the no-marks-on-surrounding-armour clasps—Pharma pried his armour off. He opened up his medical augmentation kit and selected a mirror attachment, then…

Then realized he was looking at his own interface equipment by squatting over a mirror while shut in the DJD commander’s closet.

Desperation pushed mechanisms to terrible ends, Pharma thought as he gritted his teeth and got on with it.

Surprisingly enough, he couldn’t see anything amiss here, either. He poked tentatively at his valve with his left hand while his right held the mirror steady. Was that…was that lubricant? His fans were running, so perhaps he was just aroused? It didn’t mean the equipment had been used.

A preliminary diagnostic popped up in his vision, indicating that there had been no usage of his interface equipment last night.

The full diagnostic was still running, but Pharma felt fairly secure that he’d not been the recipient of non-consensual interface while he’d been passed out.

Pharma’s moment of relief was short-lived. “What are you doing in there?” came Tarn’s voice bellowing through the door. 

“Confirming that you didn’t do anything awful to me against my will!” It occurred to Pharma even as he said it that just because Tarn had not done anything awful to him last night did not mean a hideous fate was not waiting for him right now, just outside that door.

“If you want your _confirmation,_ ” Tarn snapped, “you can come out here and watch with me.”

Pharma really didn’t want to leave the closet. He felt a lot safer with a door, however flimsy, between himself and Tarn. On the other hand, he couldn’t exactly stay in the DJD’s headquarters forever. And he was fairly certain that things would not go any better for him, and were in fact likely to be worse, if he made Tarn come in here and get him.

“I’m _coming_ ,” Pharma snapped back, trying to strike the perfect balance between crabby-and-irritated enough to let Tarn know he didn’t appreciate being ordered around by a Decepticon, and meek-and-acquiescent enough to not get fusion-cannoned in the face by a confirmed mass murderer. 

Pharma looked at the closet door, took a deep breath, kissed the illusion of safety goodbye, and opened the door.

Tarn stood before his hearth. Pharma had not realized that the furled object stored inside a canister mounted above the fireplace was not some sort of curtain but a viewing screen. In hindsight, it made sense that Tarn might want to view movies from the comfort of his couches. Right now, the screen was fully extended, and it was not displaying a movie. Instead, nine small squares showed the same scene from a variety of angles.

The scene was, quite clearly, Pharma on Tarn’s lap.

Pharma shot a glance around the room. Yes, there were the cameras, recording Pharma’s presence even now. That would be bad enough—Pharma standing here without any obvious evidence of coercion—but the images on the monitors were far, far worse.

 _The DJD has recorded evidence of me making out with Tarn_ , Pharma thought. The knowledge seemed insurmountably huge, as though there were a wall between the sentence itself and its impact; between understanding words and comprehending their implications. Pharma felt his mouth go dry.

Never mind the T-cog quota. He’d just handed Tarn everything he needed to destroy him.

Staring at the screen, Pharma watched his past self purring and cooing, ignorant of his own role in his final and crushing defeat.

Beaten, Pharma bowed his head. “What do you want?” he whispered, his voice dull.

#

Tarn wasn’t used to Pharma speaking softly. 

“You’ve got me,” the Autobot said listlessly. “I surrender. Tell me what you want. Name it.”

Tarn felt his own fuel tanks quiver with uncertainty. The evidence on the screen was bad— _damning_ , even—but the matter was not yet out of Tarn’s control. He was alone with Pharma, and the rest of the DJD wouldn’t be back for another day, nor would they return early without calling Tarn first. But Tarn had never seen Pharma like this. No amount of threats, spark torment, physical blows, sensory deprivation or mind games had been able to reduce him into this beaten, complacent thing that stood next to his chair with bent head and drooping wings.

“Come now,” Tarn said, sliding his index finger under Pharma’s chin, forcing him to lift it and look Tarn in the eye. “Why so dispirited?”

There—a flash of anger, barely contained. Tarn was relieved to see it. The real Pharma was still in there, somewhere.

“Tell me,” Pharma growled through gritted teeth, “what you _want_. In exchange for keeping my mouth shut.”

Tarn blinked. To be honest, this entire situation was far outside his comfort level. He had no experience upon which to draw to tell him what he should do next.

Something in his brain still didn’t want to accept that what he saw on the screens was true. He’d checked and rechecked the video feeds while Pharma had been hiding, convinced that someone had been tampering with the surveillance footage. Autobot Special Ops, messing with him? Tesarus, pulling a prank? 

But in his spark he knew no one would _dare_. And though he was not an expert, he knew enough to recognize that nothing looked amiss in the code. Meanwhile, the dull throb in his brain module and the slow burn in his fuel lines informed him that _yes,_ for the first time in a long time he’d been blitzed out of his mind.

If Lord Megatron…or Soudwave…saw this footage, Tarn would find out how all his victims had felt. Tarn would end up in his own dungeon, torn apart by his own DJD, reviled as the traitor that he had become.

And yet.

Megatron had left him alone for so very long.

And Pharma had such _pretty_ wings.

Pharma’s mouth—that lovely, poisonous mouth—began to curl in a sly grin, and Tarn realized he had waited too long to answer. His silence had revealed his weakness to his enemy.

“I want,” Tarn said quickly, before Pharma got too many ideas about Tarn’s potential vulnerabilities. “I want you to keep your mouth shut. That’s _all_ I want.” Tarn drew himself up to his full height, crossing his arms and trying to look imposing as he added, “In addition to the continuation of our previous arrangement.”

Pharma’s smile faded. Tarn’s lip curved under his mask. _Yes_. It was important that he remind Pharma who was in charge, here. Who had created and enforced the status quo that kept Tarn supplied with T-cogs and kept Pharma dancing to the DJD’s tune.

It was important that he keep Pharma eager to please. Because…

Damning evidence aside, Tarn would not mind a repeat of last night’s activities. It was clear, from the images on the screen and the afterglow still warming his spark, that he had enjoyed himself. Tarn could make all the evidence disappear. He was so very _good_ at making problems disappear, _forever_. That meant he could make the evidence of his encounters with Pharma disappear as many times as he needed to.

All he had to do was keep Pharma in line. Then he could have…

Tarn’s brain spun with possibilities.

Was this how treachery began? Not with ignorance or malice, but with this delicious gratification and deep-seated need for a second (third, fourth, and so on) taste, with an assurance that he could master the situation and a confidence that the risk would be worth it? Was this the beginning, then, or had it started when his need for T-cogs became all-consuming?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

His need for _Pharma_ was all-consuming now, and he was the leader of the Decepticion Justice Division, and he would _not_ be denied.

#

 _All_ Tarn wanted was for him to keep his mouth shut? Pharma was very suspicious of the DJD commander’s sincerity. Tarn’s request seemed far too easy. It wasn’t like Tarn to ask only for something that Pharma would have gladly done anyway. 

And yet. Tarn’s fusion cannon still thrummed with menacing bloodlust. What else could Pharma do but agree?

“Of course,” Pharma said, grateful that the panic he felt in his systems didn’t seem to be audible in his voice.

Tarn sighed, folding his arms in a familiar “pretending-to-relax-but-knowing-I’m-intimidating-the-hell-out-of-you-and-thoroughly-enjoying-every-moment-of-it”gesture. “I’m honestly sorry I have to say this, but, you _do_ understand that if I find out you…oh, I don’t know…bugged my hab suite, or uploaded a virus into my systems, or something like that, I’d really have no choice but to make your demise something…er, _spectacular_ , right?” He pretended to idly examine his cannon in a gesture that was doubtlessly calculated.

 _Spectacular_ by DJD standards doubtlessly meant incredibly long and drawn-out, incomprehensibly painful, and utterly degrading, all at once. Pharma felt a moment’s curiosity at just _how_ Tarn would describe “above and beyond” and immediately quashed it; he really didn’t want to know. The bizarre thing his mind focused on instead was the way he was able to take that threat as just business—a necessary facet of their professional interaction—and not some horrible, hurtful, personal affront.

“That’s about what I would expect of you, yes,” Pharma said smoothly. Privately he was grateful he’d had so little time to prepare for this meeting; otherwise he’d have certainly investigated some of those options. Hiding surveillance devices in DJD headquarters or deliberately making Tarn ill _would_ be what a good Autobot ought to do with an invitation to Tarn’s personal suite; but Pharma hadn’t come here to be a good Autobot.

He’d come here for the same reason Tarn had invited him. They’d both had something they needed. Something the other could give.

This encounter was a draw, then. They both broke even.

Pharma could live with that.

“If the Decepticon Army sees that,” Tarn said slowly, “I’d have to put _myself_ on the List.”

“Then you’d better get rid of it,” Pharma said.

“Here. Watch,” Tarn invited. “I wouldn’t expect you to trust me.”

Tarn dragged the surveillance video to the trash can on his monitor. A moment later, he hit Delete. Pharma watched as the file erased.

“And nobody knows unless one of us talks.” Pharma smirked. “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

And, bizarrely, a notion flickered across Pharma’s brain. Maybe…just maybe…maybe he might even consider doing this again.

Tarn wasn’t half bad when he put his mind to it.

Pharma apparently had a new fetish.

Tarn would never tell, because he didn’t want his own teammates to put him on the List.

And Pharma wouldn’t tell if Tarn wouldn’t.

They both had each other by the throat, now. The thought of a level playing field made Pharma smile. “I want you to _promise_ ,” Pharma said with a grin.

Tarn stared at him, stunned. “I…promise,” he said slowly, awkwardly, and then…then…

Tarn got down on his knees before the flabbergasted doctor and pressed his fist to his chest. “I, Tarn of Cybertron, commander of the Decepticon Justice Division, solemnly swear to hold forever secret the knowledge of our soiree.”

 _Soiree_. Pharma smirked. Was _that_ was the Decepticon had chosen to call it?

Actually, that name wasn’t half bad.

Tarn’s pose was probably taken from some disgusting Decepticon allegiance ritual, and Pharma ought to be repelled, except that he really did like the sight of the DJD’s commander kneeling at his feet. He ought to show some gratitude, so he mimicked Tarn’s arm gesture, and—minus the kneeling—said, “I, Pharma of Vos, Chief Medical Officer of Delphi, hereby vow to hold forever secret the knowledge of our soiree.” 

Strange. It felt like he was taking his medical oath all over again.

Tarn made a humming sound. Pharma got the strangest feeling that he was smiling under his mask. A prickling sensation raced across Pharma’s wings as the implications of their promise sank in, and Pharma felt his knees go week.

What they’d just done was terrible and wrong, nothing either of them had ever admitted even to themselves that they’d wanted, an utter betrayal not only of their factions but their very ideals…

…and they were going to do it again. Probably every chance they got.

Pharma’s mouth went dry.

He already couldn’t wait.


End file.
